Kill Switch (22 page)

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Authors: Neal Baer

BOOK: Kill Switch
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“I barely told them anything,” she said to Nick without taking her eyes from the page. “Certainly not enough to help.”
“You were eight,” Nick said, “and you were scared to death. Give yourself a break.”
“They asked me what he looked like,” Claire said, pointing to the page in question. “I said he was tall, had brown hair and a big nose, and he was wearing a short-sleeve shirt and khaki shorts. They asked me what kind of car he drove. I told them it was white and had four doors. I never got the license plate.”
“That's more than we get from most witnesses,” Hart chimed in from across the room without looking up. “Especially the kids.”
She kept reading, the scene playing through her head like it had thousands of times over the last twenty years.
He pulled up to the house in the gleaming white car.
He looked nervous.
I blinked. I backed away from him.
Then he told Amy about her father.
“I blinked,” Claire said.
“What?” Nick asked, looking up from the file his head was buried in.
“Nothing,” Claire answered, though it was far from nothing. Something was bothering her.
Why did I blink?
She tried to rewind the scene in her head and play it back in slow motion. As if it were recorded on videotape. She could clearly see Winslow getting out of the car. Heading toward them. Looking right at Claire.
Looking at
me?
She slowed down the tape playing in her head even more, like a film in which she could clearly see each frame.
Eight-year-old Claire looked up.
She made eye contact with Winslow, who was almost directly in front of her.
She felt her nose wrinkle.
His head turned toward Amy.
My nose wrinkled.
An odor permeated her nostrils. Like someone had just taken a picture.
A Polaroid picture.
Claire nearly jumped out of her chair, startling Nick and Hart.
“Are you okay?” Hart asked, alarmed.
But Claire only had eyes for her statement, tears dropping on the pages as she sped through each one. Looking for words, a sentence she knew she wouldn't find.
“It's not here,” she said, her worst fears realized.
Nick shot Hart a look as he turned toward her. “What's not there?” he asked, seeing that something had been released deep inside her.
“The smell,” Claire uttered. “I never told them about the smell.”
“You smelled something?” asked Hart as he closed the folder in his hand.
Claire tried to regain her composure. “My father had this old Polaroid camera,” she recalled. “He loved taking pictures of me with it. But then he'd make me sit there as the picture came out of the camera and he'd peel back the paper on it ... and I hated the smell.”
“The smell of the picture,” Nick clarified.
“That's why I wrinkled my nose when Winslow came up my driveway. He was looking right at me. He was almost in front of me and I wrinkled my nose and backed away... .”
“Because he smelled like a Polaroid picture,” Hart deduced. “He stunk like developing fluid.”
He tossed Nick a look. Any detective would know this was a huge lead.
“But I never told the police,” Claire continued. “I never told them because—” She looked down, trying to catch her breath.
This time, Nick didn't hesitate to put his arm around her shoulder. “Because it was you who Winslow really wanted,” he said, just as gently as before. “You smelled him and the look on your face must've repulsed him. You backed away and he turned his attention toward your friend.”
“You see?” Claire said, looking up at Nick, her eyes wet. “It was my fault. He wanted me. It was supposed to be me, not Amy.” Claire was gulping for air as if she were drowning. “I didn't tell the police because I was ashamed to admit it—”
“No,” Nick replied. “That look saved your life. And you didn't tell the police because you were scared someone would blame you. But Winslow taking Amy was never your fault.”
Just like that, Claire was that scared eight-year-old girl again. And she did what she remembered doing back then, that day. She began to sob, and buried her head in the cop's shoulder. Only this time, the shoulder was Nick Lawler's.
C
HAPTER
22
F
ifteen minutes later, Claire, now fully composed, sat in a well-worn leather chair beside Nick and Hart in Captain Killian's office. The room was small, dark, and musty, as if light were the enemy. Claire wondered how many other victims had sat in this chair over the years—and how many ever got answers to their nightmares.
Though the trio had just begun to dig into the myriad of boxes that made up Amy's case file, Nick and Hart pounced on Claire's revelation that Mr. Winslow reeked of developing fluid. That was too big a lead to sit on. Still, the captain shook his head with doubt.
“You grew up here,” Killian said to Claire, “so I don't have to tell you what a needle in a haystack this is.” He looked at Nick. “You didn't grow up here, so I'll fill you in. Back in eighty-nine, Rochester was still Kodak City. Hell, half the town's named after George Eastman, and until digital cameras came along and decimated the film business, Kodak was Monroe County's biggest employer. I'd hate to guess how many people working in the plants there came home every night stinking of developing fluid.”
Hart had anticipated Killian's reaction. “Boss,” he said, handing over a folder, “the father of the victim, Amy Danforth, was a sales exec at Kodak. Because the kidnapper said he worked with Amy's father, Kodak cooperated with the investigation.” He gestured to Claire. “The composite of the suspect that Dr. Waters gave back then was compared to photos from the ID badges of every Kodak employee. No one matched, and the one employee whose last name was Winslow was a woman who died in 2002.”
Nick shifted in his chair. “We're thinking maybe the guy who took Amy was involved in kiddie porn.”
Killian's face tightened. “You mean he was looking for another little girl to take pictures of.”
“No Internet back then,” Nick answered. “Only way for pervs to share their sick pictures with fellow pedophiles was either in person or by U.S. mail. And they could hardly take their film to be developed at some drugstore or photo kiosk, so they had to do it themselves.”
Killian closed the folder and put it on his desk. “Did anyone back then look into the possibility that Amy was kidnapped by a kiddie porn ring?”
“Yes,” Hart replied. “Her info and photos were sent to the FBI and National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. With no results, obviously.”
The captain sat back and crossed his arms. “Okay, Al,” he finally relented. “It's a long shot, but I guess the developing fluid is the only fresh lead we've got.”
“When I was growing up,” Claire offered, both nervous and excited that she may have set them on a new course, “our neighbor down the street was a professional photographer. He was always going to weddings, confirmations, and social events. He belonged to some trade organization—I think it was called the Rochester Photographic Society. Maybe we should start there.”
“I have a better idea,” Hart said.
 
A short time later, the trio pulled up to Great Lakes Film Labs, a gray concrete building located in an aging industrial park in the nearby suburb of Henrietta, fifteen minutes south of downtown Rochester. Hart's “better idea” had been to confer with an old-timer in the police department's photo lab who'd assured him in the presence of Nick and Claire that there wasn't a photographer in the area who hadn't gone to the people at Great Lakes for help at one time or another.
They entered the front office, noticing the framed before-and-after prints adorning the walls. Images of brides from the 1920s, once murky and faded, now showed them holding flowing bouquets of tinted pink roses, their cheeks the same blushing color. The brides in the restored photos stared out into the showroom, as if they were looking ahead to a bright, happy future. But no customers were there to see them. The young assistant behind the counter, her arms tattooed with winning poker hands, made Nick and Hart for cops immediately.
“You guys from Rochester PD?” she asked before either detective could open his mouth.
“I'm Detective Hart,” he said, displaying his badge. Then, gesturing to Nick and Claire, “They're just along for the ride. We're looking for Douglas Lewis.”
“He's expecting you,” the girl said, reaching for her purse, “but he's stuck in the back with a customer.” She pulled out a cigarette and a lighter. “He'll be out in a second. Do you mind if I—”
“Don't let us stop you,” Claire said.
“Thanks,” she replied with a smile of relief, obviously tweaking for her nicotine fix as she burst through the front door into the sunlight, lighting up at the same time.
Copies of the company's sales brochure lay on a table near an aging but intact leather sofa. Claire leafed through one and read aloud, “ ‘We develop and restore disk film, old film, damaged and wet film.' ” She looked up, thinking there was a deep sadness to the place, as if it were trying to hold on to a past that was forever gone. “Everything's digital now. I barely remember using film in a camera.” Claire walked over to study the restored images on the wall.
They look like phantoms,
she thought.
She was staring at the photographs of people whose lives ended years ago when a door opened. “Film is dead,” said a male voice.
Nick and Hart turned to face a sandy-haired, pleasant-looking man in his thirties walking toward them. “I'm Doug Lewis. Which one of you is Detective Hart?”
“I am,” Hart replied, offering his hand, which Lewis shook. “Thanks for seeing us on such short notice.” He gestured to Nick. “This is Detective Lawler from the New York Police Department, and the young lady over there admiring your work is Dr. Waters.”
Lewis looked Nick in the eye as he shook his hand. “What brings the NYPD all the way up here?” he asked in a friendly tone.
“It's actually a local case,” Nick answered. “I'm a friend of Dr. Waters and I'm helping her out.”
It was Nick's words—and the sudden strong smell of developing fluid—that brought Claire back to the present. She turned from the photographs on the wall and walked over to Lewis. “I've got to tell you, what you do here is fascinating—”
She stopped as she locked eyes with Lewis. She stiffened, unable to turn away because what she saw horrified her.
Oh my God. It's him.
Lewis's smile faded as he read Claire's face.
“Are you okay, Doctor?” he asked.
But Claire was so shocked she couldn't answer.
It's him.
“Where is she?” Claire whispered.
Lewis shot a nervous glance to Nick and Hart, who were as in the dark as he was. He turned back to Claire. “What did you say?” he asked, taking a step back.
“Where is she?” Claire said with a threatening edge in her rising voice that scared the hell out of Lewis.
“Lady, I agreed to see Detective Hart because he said he had some questions. I don't know what you're talking about—”
“What did you do to her?” Claire screamed, rushing toward Lewis and pounding on his face and chest with her fists before Nick and Hart could react. “Tell me, you sick bastard! Tell me where Amy is!”
“Get away from me!” Lewis yelled, terrified by her outburst.
But she kept repeating herself as Nick and Hart pulled her off Lewis.
“Claire, what the hell are you doing?” Nick yelled, clutching her hands in his so she'd stop beating Lewis.
“Can't you see?” Claire screamed at Nick. “It's him!”
“It can't be him,” Hart said as calmly as he could. “He's too young.”
Hart turned to Lewis. “You were how old in 1989, ten?”
“Eight,” Lewis said, the color just returning to his face. “What's going on here?”
“Dr. Waters thinks you're the man who kidnapped her friend,” Hart said as Claire caught her breath.
She realized she had made a terrible mistake.
“I'm sorry,” she said, the words pouring out. “The man smelled like developing fluid. He took my friend Amy, put her in his white BMW, and I never saw her again. You look so much like him.”
The mention of the car made Lewis's face drop.
“Are you okay, sir?” Nick asked him, seeing the fear in Lewis's eyes—the same fear he saw every time he looked at his own face in a mirror.
Lewis caught Nick's sympathetic glance. “This man ...” Lewis hesitated, then forced himself to ask, “What else can you tell me about him?”
Hart shot a look to Nick as he answered. “Not much. All we have is a composite sketch and the fact that he drove a white BMW.”
“And his name,” Claire offered, “or at least the name he gave us. Winslow.”
“Winslow?” Lewis spat out the name as if it were a curse. “Are you sure?”
“I'll never forget it,” Claire said.
Douglas Lewis looked at them with a profound sadness, as if a crushing weight had just landed on his shoulders. They watched as he turned around and walked to a nearby file cabinet. He removed a key from his pocket, unlocked the top drawer, and opened it.
“If your memory is correct,” he said as he shuffled through papers in the file drawer, “then I'm the one who should be apologizing to you.”
He found what he was looking for, a single piece of paper, and left the drawer open as he walked the few feet back to them.
“Is this the man who kidnapped your friend?” Lewis asked, his voice cracking.
He handed the paper to Claire, who realized by its touch that it was a photograph. Without even looking, she knew what she was about to see.
She brought the picture up. Tears welled in her eyes.
Claire was looking at the man who'd so long ago plunged her entire world into darkness. She glanced over at Nick. All she could manage was to nod yes.
She turned her head back to Lewis, not wanting to ask him the question, already knowing the answer.
“His name is Peter Lewis,” he said. “He's my father.”
The room in Rochester Police Headquarters was decorated in soft, friendly earth tones, the furniture a step up in appearance and comfort from the usual government-issued crap found in municipal offices everywhere. It was here that Doug Lewis sat with Claire, Nick, and Al. He agreed to tell them what he knew, even consenting to having his statement videotaped on the condition that it never be made public unless needed as evidence in court.
They had piled into Hart's unmarked Ford Crown Victoria for what turned out to be a mostly silent ride downtown. Lewis sat up front beside Hart, directly in front of Claire, who tried not to bore holes into the back of Lewis's head with her eyes. Instead, she forced herself to stare out the window, a jumble of emotions running through her. She wanted to hear everything Lewis had to say and at the same time was petrified to hear a word of it.
But now, at the table, it became clear from the look on Lewis's ashen face that this was going to be as hard for him as it would be for her. He had just learned that his father kidnapped a young girl, who would now be the same age as he was. As Claire was. If Amy were still alive.
We're in this together,
Claire thought.
“Are you ready?” Hart asked Lewis, placing the microphone before him.
“As much as I'll ever be,” Lewis replied, glancing nervously at Claire.
Hart pressed RECORD on the camera. “Please begin with your full name and date of birth.”
Lewis looked at them, took a deep breath.
“My name is Douglas Adam Lewis. I was born April second, 1981, at Highland Hospital in Rochester. I am here of my own free will and am anxious to cooperate with the police on this matter.
“As a child, I lived in Webster, just east of Rochester on Lake Ontario. I am the only child of Marjorie, a secretary, who died of cancer in 1997, and Peter, a chemist who worked for a company called PhotoChem over in Irondequoit, which made developing fluids and emulsifiers for film. He always used to say that he was fascinated with how chemicals could bring an image to life. He passed away from a heart attack in 1999.”

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